


geraniums

by putorius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Language of Flowers, M/M, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putorius/pseuds/putorius
Summary: The shop door flew open, sending the bell turning over and over with surprising force. A man, tallish and splotchy-faced in anger, strode in and landed in front of Grantaire, just about too close for comfort.“May I help you?” asked Grantaire, clutching the flower pot he’d nearly dropped.“I need you,” said the man, blowing a stray strand of hair away from his forehead. “I need you to tell me how to say 'fuck you' in flower.”





	geraniums

**Author's Note:**

> listen i didnt even try to edit this. i didnt even read over it after i finished typing really, so sorry for all my mistakes? enjoy! its based on that one tumblr post. also, for those of you who don't know, hair can be categorized into different types. 3b is fairly curly and 4c is just about as kinky/curly as you can get. also, kinky is a word used to describe hair patterns/types by black people.

Flower shops are primarily patronized by a quiet crowd, mostly pleasant, introverted gardeners; dewy, doe-eyed sweethearts in love; or sulking, trudging lovers in search of apology. Grantaire likes his job for these reasons - there isn’t an excess of noise, people are fairly straightforward, and the shop is always humid, even in the winter and fall, because everything would wilt otherwise.

The shop door flew open, sending the bell turning over and over with surprising force. A man, tallish and splotchy-faced in anger, strode in and landed in front of Grantaire, just about too close for comfort.

“May I help you?” asked Grantaire, clutching the flower pot he’d nearly dropped.

“I need you,” said the man, blowing a stray strand of hair away from his forehead. “I need you to tell me how to say _fuck you_ in flower.”

Grantaire took a step back from him, just to establish some distance and to bring the man into focus. Upon further inspection, it was revealed that the man in question was angelically beautiful, though ultimately frazzled.

“Okay,” said Grantaire. “I can do that. Might I ask why?”

The man followed as Grantaire crossed the store to deposit the flower pot behind the front desk. Grantaire grabbed a pen and a nearby notebook.

“I have a friend who crossed me,” said the man.

“And a passive-aggressive bouquet is the way to smooth things over?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Traditionally, I’ve found the _fuck you_ sentiment to be wholly aggressive,” said the man.

“You’re sending them flowers,” said Grantaire.

The man huffed slightly and removed a hair tie from his wrist. He began to tie up his hair, which, being of an apparently kinky quality, was difficult to do dry. Grantaire clicked his tongue in sympathy - he had wide 3b curls, but his mother had had long 4c hair, and washing it was a full day procedure.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” said Grantaire. “Geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, yellow carnations, and orange lilies. Would you like them in a vase?”

The man watched as Grantaire jotted these down and began to sketch out the arrangement.

“Why those? And yes, please,” said the man.

“Stupidity, insincerity, uselessness. Yellow carnations can actually mean ‘you have disappointed me’, and orange lilies are for hatred,” said Grantaire. “Standard glass vase?”

“Mhm,” said the man. “I appreciate this. Truly.”

“It’s my job,” said Grantaire, shrugging. “When did you need this by?”

“As soon as possible,” said the man. “Or, Saturday is fine.”

That was almost a week away. They’d be getting a new batch of flowers in on Friday.

“Saturday,” said Grantaire. “It’ll be fresher.”

The man nodded. “What do I owe you?”

“Pay on pick-up,” said Grantaire. “I’ll need your name and number, unless you want it delivered?”

“I’d much appreciate it if it could be delivered,” said the man. “Cafe Musain, and I’d pay extra to have it delivered at a particular time.”

“Just say when,” said Grantaire.

The man grinned at him, a wild, devious thing. They arranged for the delivery, exchanged information, and Enjolras left the shop, drawing much of the air out with him.

\---

That Saturday, the meeting in it’s final stages of winding down, someone knocked on the door to the Musain’s back room. Each of the Amis looked around at each other, a quick check that they were all, in fact, in the same room. Enjolras leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea.

The knock came again. Courfeyrac rose to open it.

“Flower delivery,” said the delivery woman. “I’m looking for a Monsieur Combeferre?”

A series of mocking catcalls swept across the Amis. Combeferre swatted them off, both perplexed and amused.

“That’s me,” he said. He took the flowers from the woman and she, nodding goodbye, left the way she had come.

“Let’s see,” said Bahorel, pulling up a chair. “Have you been holding out on us?”

“Everyone I know is in this room,” said Combeferre, poking around the arrangement.

“What are you doing?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Looking for a note or something,” said Combeferre.

Jehan bounded up to inspect the flowers alongside Combeferre.

“My, my,” they said. “Who have you pissed off recently?”

“What do you mean?” asked Combeferre, concern lacing his voice.

“This is perhaps the second rudest bouquet I’ve ever seen,” said Jehan. “What did you _do?_ ”

Combeferre’s head snapped up suddenly. He zeroed in on Enjolras.

“Enjolras,” he said. “Did you send me hate flowers?”

Enjolras sipped his tea and pointedly ignored Combeferre’s gaze.

\---

Combeferre entered the flower shop with more grace than Enjolras had, but he made an equally odd impression upon Grantaire.

“Hello,” he said. “Can you do me a favor?”

Grantaire nodded at him. He looked like something peeled from an old book, something regal and fuzzy around the edges. Grantaire should have known, he thought later, that this man went alongside the angelic man from before.

“I need to know if a man came in here the other day asking to insult someone with flowers,” said Combeferre.

“Ah,” said Grantaire. “Was it you he was insulting? I’ll have to ask you not to shoot the messenger - or, ah, florist.”

This garnered a laugh. “No,” he said. “I’m looking to return the favor.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “Well, strap in, ‘cause I was reading up on flower meanings and I think I can really nail this one.”

Another laugh. “Combeferre,” said Combeferre. He extended his hand.

Grantaire returned the favor. “Grantaire,” he said, and shook Combeferre’s outstretched hand.

\---

The next week, Enjolras was back in the shop.

“You’re a traitor,” he said. “You went behind my back and helped him instead of me.”

Grantaire momentairlly held his face in his hands. “Ma’am,” he said to the woman he was helping. “Please give me one moment to deal with this scoundrel.”

“ _Scoundrel_ ,” said Enjolras, impassioned.

Grantaire ushered him to the other side of the store.

“Dude,” he said. “You can’t come in here calling me a traitor when I’m on the clock.”

“Sorry,” said Enjolras, though he appeared to have no remorse. “But you’re still a traitor.”

“I don’t think you’re familiar with capitalism,” said Grantaire. “But when you have to maintain a business -”

“I’m very familiar with capitalism,” said Enjolras, almost indignantly. “Very familiar. You don’t know me well enough to know this, but I’ll have you know I’ve written _extensively_ on capitalism and its effects.”

“I’ll bet you wrote about it in a very ideological way,” said Grantaire dryly.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t come in here for you to mock me,” he said.

“Did you come for flowers? Because I have a customer waiting. I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Grantaire, breaking away.

After assisting the woman with befriending a nice, new cactus, Grantaire found Enjolras among the peonies.

“Well?” he said. Enjolras started and turned around.

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “I’ll need something to convey the sentiment that _this means war_.”

\---

“You know, you never told me what it is you’re fighting about, or who you’re fighting with,” said Grantaire.

“You know who I’m fighting with,” said Enjolras. “My boyfriend, Combeferre. Didn’t he get those flowers from you?”

“I mean, you never told me,” said Grantaire. “How am I supposed to pledge allegiance to a leader who will not inform me of our cause?”

Enjolras gave him a stiff, measured look, before relaxing and nodding. “Good,” he said. “You are not one of the sheep.”

\---

Grantaire woke up suddenly in a cold sweat that night. It had occurred to him, just then, just in that very moment of sweaty, sleep-ridden confusion, that Enjolras had been _joking_ when he’d been talking about sheep.

\---

“How do I say ‘calm down, it’s not that deep’ in flowers?” asked Combeferre.

“Hoo boy, do I ever have the arrangement for you,” said Grantaire. “I’ve got an art deco vase I think would be appropriate.”

\---

Combeferre came in once, not for flowers, but to thank Grantaire for his work.

“I’m sure you must be busy with other orders,” said Combeferre. “For actual events, perhaps, and with taking care of all of these flowers. You do excellent work, Grantaire.”

“It’s not, like, hard to shove some flowers into a vase,” said Grantaire.

Combeferre peered at him from behind his glasses. Grantaire got the impression that he was being studied.

“You are downplaying your talent,” said Combeferre. “You’re talented. Why would you hide that?”

“Um,” said Grantaire. “Fun and glory?”

Combeferre laughed at that. Grantaire liked to make Combeferre laugh, in part because he had the most peculiar laugh Grantaire had ever heard, with high squeaks and low rolls. It was delightful.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Combeferre. “I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Aren’t you a medical student?” asked Grantaire. “I thought you were all geniuses or something.”

“Or something,” said Combeferre.

Grantaire hummed for a moment, tapping his fingers along the edge of the counter.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. Come on.”

Grantaire gestured for Combeferre to follow him. Combeferre rose from the stool he’d been sitting on.

“Where am I going?” he asked.

“Back room, just for a moment,” said Grantaire. “I’m going to teach you how to make a very, very basic floral arrangement.”

\---

Somehow, Combeferre was covered in clippings and loose petals.

“I told you,” said Combeferre. His eyes were bright and shiny in a way that stuck out against his skin.

“Please,” said Grantaire. “I’ve never seen anything better.”

It was horrid. The colors didn’t work together and the vase was a confusing shape. Combeferre had, even under Grantaire’s careful guidance, somehow failed to trim the stems at the appropriate lengths so that the flowers would support one another.

And there - Combeferre’s laugh again. Grantaire thought for a moment that if he’d been covered in flower trimmings, he’d have looked like a failing Instagram model, or possibly like he’d been diving in the dumpster behind the shop. Combeferre looked _intentional_.

\---

Grantaire knew three things:

One - both Enjolras and Combeferre looked like they’d popped into existence after God had sprinkled fairy dust over a _Teen Vogue_ shoot.

Two - Enjolras and Combeferre were dating each other, and whatever ridiculous flower war they were having, they were solidly together.

Three - He’d really like to go for a coffee with one or both of them. Preferably both.

\---

The fifth time Enjolras came in looking to send a fluorescent insult to Combeferre, Grantaire put his foot down.

“I’m cutting you off,” he said. “No more flowers.”

Enjolras squinted at him. “Last I checked, capitalism required you to make attempts at doing business. Exchange of goods for money, yes?”

“Tell me what you and your boyfriend are fighting about,” said Grantaire. “Or no more flowers.”

Enjolras looked scandalized. “You would withhold business in exchange for personal information?”

“Look,” said Grantaire. “All of my other clients are so boring, and clearly whatever this is isn’t serious enough that you would break up over it.”

“You would be surprised,” said Enjolras sourly.

“Surprise me, then,” said Grantaire.

Enjolras surveyed him for a moment - successfully making Grantaire feel both scrutinized and like he was being let in on a large secret - and then told him.

“We were ordering pizza,” said Enjolras. “Or we were trying to. I wanted pineapple on mine. Combeferre was personally insulted.”

Grantaire bit back a laugh. Of course it was that stupid. “Presumably because pineapple should never have been put on pizza, Enjolras. That’s devil’s work.”

Enjolras looked at him, serious and wild-eyed. “I know that I don’t know you very well, Grantaire, but I could kill you over this.”

Grantaire believed him.

\---

Then, one day, the both of them came in with three coffees.

“What’s this?” asked Grantaire, who was knee-deep in succulents.

“Coffee,” said Combeferre. “It’s a frappucino, since it’s so hot out. We weren’t sure if you’d like them, so we got you a small.”

“Tall, they call it,” said Enjolras. “Fascinating.”

Grantaire shot a confused look towards Enjolras.

“At Starbucks,” said Enjolras. “They call it a _tall_.”

“He’d never been before,” said Combeferre by way of explanation. “I doubt, having interacted with him this long, that you’ve escaped his thoughts on big companies and capitalism?”

“By a hair,” said Grantaire, dusting his hands off on his jeans. He stepped carefully over the succulents and took the drink. It was pleasantly unlike coffee and very, very refreshing.

“Thanks,” he said. Enjolras looked particularly pleased with himself.

The three stood there for a few seconds, floundering around each other.

“Well,” said Combeferre. “I guess we, um, ought to be out.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire, who found himself wanting them to stay and chat.

Combeferre and Enjolras heard it in Grantaire’s tone at the same time, but, having already begun to excuse themselves, needed to finish the job.

On their way out, Grantaire could swear he heard Combeferre mumble, “What did I say that for?” and Enjolras’s “It’s fine, ‘Ferre.” in response.

\---

They were waiting outside for him, sitting on the small white bench outside the shop. Enjolras was picking at the already chipping paint.

“Hey,” said Grantaire. “Aren’t you guys supposed to buy your hate flowers separately?”

Enjolras stood and brushed off his pants. “We’re postponing the war in favor of a common goal,” he said.

“Which is?” Grantaire rummaged around in his jean pocket for the keys to the shop.

“Classified, as of now,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire shot a look at Combeferre, who was smiling like an idiot and Enjolras. Combeferre, in kind, looked at Grantaire and nodded.

“Very, very classified,” said Combeferre. “If I might change the topic, could I ask you a question or two?”

Grantaire hated it when people said things like that to him. Asking if you could _talk_ or _hey, can I ask you something_ always brought out an innate fear reaction in him, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Sure,” he said, pushing his shoulder into the door. It always stuck first thing in the morning.

“Excellent,” said Combeferre, following Grantaire into the store. “What are your interests?”

“Um,” said Grantaire. This was not the question he’d been anticipating, but it was no less unsettling. “I like flowers.”

“And?” prodded Combeferre.

“Snails,” said Grantaire. “They’re fascinating. And mythology, I suppose. I like history and philosophy, too.”

“Excellent,” Combeferre said again. “That’s perfect.”

“Um?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s just that I happen to have an affinity for mollusks as well, and Enjolras happens to like history and philosophy,” said Combeferre. “Both of us like mythology.”

“Twas fate,” said Grantaire before he could stop himself. The look on his face that followed was one of mild horror.

Combeferre and Enjolras smiled at him.

“Twas,” said Enjolras. “Indeed.”

\---

Next, they appeared right as the shop was closing.

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “I was closing up. Did you need something?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras’s hands, which were clutching a bouquet of well-organized flowers.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Grantaire.

“What?” said Enjolras. Grantaire shot a look down at the flowers until Enjolras understood.

“Oh!” he said. “We have not come here for _flowers_ this time.”

“Uh, okay,” said Grantaire. “What can I do for you, then?”

Combeferre handed Grantaire a brochure for a local museum.

“We thought you might want to join us,” said Combeferre. “They’re running a temporary exhibit on women and weasels throughout history that we thought you might find weird and obscure enough to enjoy.”

It did sound like the kind of thing Grantaire would enjoy, but he couldn’t help but notice the museum’s working hours.

“You do know that the museum is closed now, yes?” he asked, turning the final lock in the door.

Enjolras’s hair glinted under the streetlights. “Yes, we do.”

“Then what are you asking for?” asked Grantaire.

“We thought it best to ask you in advance, so we might go later. A day off, maybe?” said Combeferre.

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “Sure. That won’t, like, be weird for you? Or something?”

Combeferre and Enjolras cocked their heads in unison. “Why would it be weird?” Enjolras asked.

“I’d be a third wheel,” said Grantaire. “You guys are still dating, right?”

Combeferre turned to Enjolras. “We haven’t been explicitly clear, have we?” he said.

“No, I suppose not,” said Enjolras, who then thrust the flowers at Grantaire.

“What,” said Grantaire.

“They’re yours,” said Enjolras. “We got them for you. Sorry to patronize the competition, of course, but we couldn’t get you flowers from your own shop.”

“What,” said Grantaire. He gave himself a mental kick to shock his arm into motion to take then flowers from Enjolras’s hand. Their fingers brushed in the transaction.

“I thought we might like to get you a nice gift card instead,” said Combeferre. “Or maybe chocolates, just because you must see so many flowers during the day. I thought you might get tired of them.”

“I argued that you wouldn’t work here if you didn’t love flowers, and I’m very persuasive,” said Enjolras. Combeferre nodded.

“What,” said Grantaire.

“We’d like to ask you out,” said Combeferre.

“On a date,” said Enjolras. “With us.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “To the women and weasels exhibit?”

“We could go to dinner if you prefer,” said Combeferre.

“The exhibit is fine,” said Grantaire, nearly entering a minor state of shock. “You’re trying to ask me on a date right now? The two of you?”

“Trying, yes,” said Enjolras.

“This is the part where I give you my number, then,” said Grantaire.

“Only if you want to,” said Combeferre. “Please don’t feel obligated to go out with us, we just - well, we just think you’re really cute and basically delightful, so.”

Grantaire swallowed. “Yeah, I think I’d like to give you my number at this point.”

Enjolras offered him his cell phone and a beaming smile. Grantaire entered his number and handed it back.

“I’ll text both of you,” said Enjolras. “Start up a group chat, then we’ll all have each other’s number.”

Combeferre and Grantaire nodded.

“Well,” said Grantaire. “I’ve, uh, got a cat to feed.”

“Oh, us as well,” said Enjolras. “We’d better be off.”

“See you,” said Combeferre. He looked like he wanted badly to reach out and touch Grantaire, but he didn’t. He just smiled and turned lightly. Combeferre, Grantaire noticed, was the sort of person who walked with a bounce in their step.

“Gee,” said Grantaire, fingers ghosting over flower petals.

Flowers. He held them close to his chest. Nobody had ever gotten him _flowers_ before.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed it! let me know if you did and leave a comment! or/additionally, follow me on tumblr @putoriius ! shoot me an ask or an im and we can chat abt whatever!  
> also, what i said about hair washing is the real deal. ive got a mix between 4b and 4c hair, and before i cut it short it was an all day thing. having short hair is awesome.


End file.
